


your hand is always reaching back towards me

by Kt_fairy



Series: your hand is always reaching back towards me [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content, Speirs has no chill, Speirs is a magpie, canon typical stealing, mentioned blood / gore, reckless treatment of properly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-12 08:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13543560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: The first time Speirs saw him Easy had just run Curahee. Again.





	your hand is always reaching back towards me

**Author's Note:**

> Ao3: Has a bajillion fics like this  
> Me: What if I...wrote a fic like this.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Just wanna make it clear this is based on the HBO characters and not the real dudes.

 

 

**Georgia- _1942_**

 

 The first time Speirs saw him Easy had just run Curahee. Again.

 

 At first he had been concerned that the Lieutenant training his company - Dog company - was lax, yet with time he came to notice how none of the other eight Companies were pushed as hard as E- or Easy- was. He was not a soft man; war would be hard so basic training had to be tough to prepare them all. However, he also knew that people could only be pushed so far before grudging respect became resentment. And the longer he paid attention to Easy, the more sure he was that the wrong push would lead to unwillingness and ineffectiveness, maybe even mutiny.

 

 But they kept stubbornly, almost spitefully, going. Speirs had been smoking in the doorway of his barrack hut when Easy had double timed back into camp one day. They were sweat-soaked with half of them splattered in what had looked like their rapidly regurgitated lunch, somehow still managing to keep up the Cadence to drown out Captain Sobel’s constant needling.

 

 His gaze had flicked to the Sergeant running alongside a man who was struggling, keeping pace to keep him going- a sure, solid presence. Speirs had kept his eyes on him as Easy had smartly fallen in and then been dismissed.  He took in the white PT shirt clinging to his shoulders and stomach, the glisten of sweat on the back of his neck, a smear of dirt on his thigh where he must have stumbled at the top of the hill.

 

 Speirs did not make use of his weekend passes much anymore. He had seen all the sights the local town of Toccoa had to offer, and he was not often one for carousing. He was comfortable in his own company so was never bored when most of Dog cleared out for the weekend. He would read, catch up on his paperwork, reply to the few letters he received, or walk around the camp smoking, smiling to himself at whatever Easy was getting up to. He was unsure if their hi-jinx was a result or the cause of them having their weekend passes revoked nearly every week, but they were never out of control. Their officers and NCO's were too capable for that.

 

 It was only a matter of time before he came across Sergeant Lipton from their Second Platoon. He was taking a stroll, seemingly at peace with his own company much like Speirs was. On spotting Speirs approaching him he looked surprised but not put out or awkward like most would be if they ran into an officer, into him, in their free time.

 

“Pleasant evening, sir,” he said politely, nodding to the slow sunset which was turning the few wisps of cloud in the burnished sky a sweet lilac.

 

“Indeed it is,” Speirs agreed, knocking a cigarette out of the packet and offering it.

 

“Oh, no thank you sir. Don’t smoke.”

 

 Speirs raised an eyebrow as he lit his own. “‘Suppose you don’t drink either.”

 

“Not hard liquor, and then not in great amounts,” he admitted.

 

“You’re clear headed, that’s good.”

 

“I hope so, sir.”

 

 The companionable silence as they walked and Speirs smoked was unusual for him. He did not put people at ease, he never had, but Sergeant Lipton seemed content in his company and not eager to find an excuse to leave it.

 

 Speirs dug his hands into his pockets, searching, and pulled out a handful of the contraband candies he had confiscated off a Private in his Company who had not yet earnt leniency from him.

 

 Sergeant Lipton looked at them and an almost delighted smile seemed to be surprised out of him. “Now where on earth did’ya get those from?”

 

“My pocket,”, Speirs said, making an insistent movement with his hand. “Don’t tell me you don’t eat candy either?”

 

“I do, I’m no saint,” he turned the delighted smile to Speirs as he plucked a couple from his palm, twisting off a wrapper to pop one into his mouth. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“Take the lot,” Speirs found himself saying. Lipton shot him a look which was as close to being a confused frown you could get without it actually being one. “I know there’s men in your Company deserve some reward for how hard they work. Best in the regiment it’s been said.”

 

 His expression cleared into surprise, ducking his head as if to hide his pleasure at the compliment to his men, his comrades, his friends. “That’s very decent of you sir. Thank you.”

 

 He held out his hands to let Speirs tip the candies into them, smiling at him when he tucked them away into his own pockets.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**SS Queen Mary - _September 1943_**

 

 A great grey lump of land sat heavily on the horizon. Only a knowledge of geography identified it as the edge of Newfoundland they were steaming past at a speed which would guarantee their arrival in England before they had become used to being at sea.

 

 Barely a day had passed and Speirs was already desperate for some fresh air and peace from the thousands of men packed into the hull of the ship, all talking and moving and smoking and stinking. A movie had been put on  for the men's entertainment in the old state dining room, and he took advantage of the peace up on deck to take a quiet stroll. He smoked two cigarettes leisurely, nodding a greeting to the few sailors he passed, taking the time to gaze out over the endlessly flat Atlantic towards the unseen war raging in Europe.

 

 They had already sailed well past Boston by the time he had settled all he needed to below decks and he found he regretted not getting the chance to lay eyes on his city one last time. Speirs was a dead man in a boat full of dead men walking, he would not allow himself the foolish hope of ever seeing it again until the war was won.

 

  Rounding the stern he peered down at the water being churned by the propellers, caught momentarily but the chaotic violence of it before moving away. He pulled up short when he spotted someone else in an Airborne jacket leaning his arms on the port side rail, cap in hand and one foot hooked behind the other, the breeze shifting through his nondescript brown hair.

 

 Sergeant Lipton was a strapping man and the standard sizing of the uniforms caused his to pull slightly across his broad shoulders and behind in a way that caught Speirs eye and made him think things he ought not to. He knew his even gaze did nothing to lessen his guilt when Lipton turned and caught him standing there staring at him.

 

 He shot to attention, shifting when Speirs waved him down before he could salute. “I’d go mad if I was saluted at every dam turn on this boat.”

 

“Sir.”

 

 Speirs motioned to the rail. “Do you mind if I join you?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

 Lipton stood upright this time, hands placed on the rail as he watched Canada get smaller as they zig-zagged away from her to avoid U-boats. Speirs rested his hip against the cold metal as he continued to smoke, watching Lipton as much of the view.

 

“You ever been out of the State’s Sergeant?”

 

“No sir. Although my parents are Scots”

 

“Is that so?”, Speirs drawled. “Mine are also.”

 

 Lipton looked at him, face as open and warm as if he had smiled. “It’s a small world, sir.”

 

“That it is”, he finished his cigarette and flicked it over the side, watching the wind catch it and whip it away. “What brings you out here?”

  

“Well I...", he hesitated, glancing at Speirs watching him before speaking. "It’s like a pressure cooker down there. Not even a day out of New York and there’s been a scuffle.”

 

“I heard”, the word ‘Jew’ had been slung like an insult and - rightly so Speirs thought - fists had been thrown.

 

“They’re good men, good soldiers, but what will make them good in combat does not suit being cooped up on top of one another in the hull of a ship most of the day. I'm responsible for them and I can't keep them from killing one another if I'm just as keyed up an’ cooped up as they are.”

 

 It was a similar reason for Speirs being on deck but he found he was impressed with the honesty of the admission. “I’d rather they be a little rowdy than not but they’ll settle down soon. They’ll get used to the routine. Or a storm will kick up and they’ll all get sick as dogs and laze around everywhere feeling sorry for themselves.”

 

 Lipton laughed at that, the inelegant sound of someone who was genuinely amused. Speirs found himself smiling as he watched him, dipping his head before he got caught looking again.

 

 During the voyage they would have to eat overcooked and under seasoned Army rations specially chosen to make sure they all reached England fit and healthy. But the sailor’s did not, and it had taken the work of an hour for Speirs to sneak into the store of fresh food meant for the dining table of the ship’s captain. He had been planning on eating one of the apples he had liberated while up on deck anyway, away from the prying eyes of the other D-Company Lieutenants who would want in on his stash. He dug around in his pocket, catching Lipton’s gaze as he produced the round, green apple from it.

 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you had magic pockets, sir, with what you pull out of them.”

 

“Then it's a good thing you know better, sergeant”, Speirs said, holding his gaze as he pulled out his jump knife to cut the apple in two, handing half to Lipton.

 

“Thank you”, he took a bite, leaning forward slightly to stop the juice dripping on his chin or on his uniform. Speirs took a large bite of his half, chewing noisily to try and drown out the tingle in his chest.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**London - _March 1944_**

 

  Speirs felt comforted by the obvious age of London, that it had survived fire and plague and revolution and war long before this fight for survival came about. What hadn't been blown down in the blitz was grey and un-fussy and he found himself slightly let down by the lack of opulence he had expected from the centre of an Empire. Nevertheless, the great central British Museum was a rare delight, a chance to see the grain of the ancient stones he had previously only known replicated in books.

 

 The Classics degree he had just finished when War was declared was one of the best in the States, but it suffered from the lack of access they had to the places and artefacts they were studying. A few of his fellow students had rich enough parents to go to Rome and Greece over a summer, but they all seemed to return more experienced in drinking and fucking than in ancient wisdom's and cultures.

 

 He was not the only soldier at the museum, and certainly not the only foreign one. He walked past a couple of chatting French officers, some Norwegians and Czechs looking in awe at the artefacts from ancient Egypt, and a few Indian NCO’s taking everything in with level gazes.

 

 Speirs did not recognise any of the American’s he saw until he was stood on the steps having a smoke. He glanced over at the sound of the rowdy voices of his countrymen and spotting a gang belonging to the 101st, recognising them as men from Easy Company as they got within earshot.

 

“Did you see the titties on that dame?”

 

“Those stone ones the only you've ever seen I bet.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“The ass on that aphrodite! Hooo boy.”

 

“Not sure how I feel about the tiny peckers on all the guys.”

 

“Makes the viewing public feel better about themselves, George.”

 

 The small one with untamed hair who was obviously George grinned around the unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “My ego gets plenty of massaging don't you worry.”

 

“Ha!”

 

‘What about you Lip?”

 

“I think you’re all philistines and I don’t know why I let you come with me,” Lipton said with a small smile, looking fond of the chatter going on around him.

 

“Hey!”

 

“Phili- what? I ain’t from Philly.”

 

“It means uncultured, Penk.”

 

“Yes _George Luz_ I knew that. Ever heard of a joke?”

 

“Have you?" Luz grinned, then noticed Speirs watching them and seemed to jump a foot in the air. “Good afternoon sir!”

 

 There was a scramble as the group came to attention, most of them looking uncomfortable at getting caught chatting shit by another company's officer.

 

“Afternoon, glad to see you’re all _enjoying_ the culture,” there was a murmur of consent. “Even if Sergeant Lipton seems to be the only one taking it in,” there was another murmur of consent, this time slightly embarrassed, Lipton obviously trying not to smile. “Enjoy your day men.”

 

“You too sir,” - “Have a good day sir,”,was chorused back at him as he set off down the steps, clutching his map of the city tightly in his hand, heart racing.

 

  He was almost at the main gate when there was a sound of boots on paving stones and he turned to find Lipton jogging over to him. “Sir, the boys don't want you to judge them by what you overheard and wanted to ask if you’d join us,” he glanced back over his shoulder at the group nervously milling around at the foot of the museum steps. “Don’t feel compelled to accept, they can be a bit...boisterous even for paratroopers. Of course you may have plans so...”

 

 He said it with such unassuming familiarity it made warmth spread to Speirs fingertips. “I have no plans, but I'll have to decline. I don't want them to have to be on their best behaviour in their free time.”

 

 Lipton gave him a look that made it clear he wished they'd be a little better behaved and it made Speirs mouth tick upwards.

 

“Well…" Lipton started, shifting back on his heels as he made to head back and before he knew what he was doing Speirs was speaking.

 

"I was going to the gallery at Trafalgar Square, if you'd like to come.”

 

 Speirs knew Lipton would turn him down. For all his levelheadedness he was still a young man in a new city, he would rather be with his friends than with him, the quiet officer from Dog Company who was always on his own. So it took Speirs a moment to realise he actually seemed to be considering it.

 

“I think I might,” he sounded surprised at himself for agreeing, taking a quick glance at his watch. “I'll just agree a place to meet them later on, sir.”

 

 An army's effectiveness and success depended on Officers and NCO's working together seamlessly with trust in one another's judgement and abilities. Speirs told himself that is was probably good practice to be familiar with Easy's most competent and trusted NCO as he stood twisting the city map in his hand, making a point of not looking over at Lipton talking to his friends so he would not have to care about their reaction.

 

 Most of the really famous and important paintings had been moved out of the gallery because of the blitz but the ones left on the walls they agreed were fine images. They  admired Nelson's Column's when they left, having a bite to eat before indulging in the novelty of riding on a bright red double-decker bus to visit the museum with the dinosaur skeletons in it. They stood marvelling at the size of the creatures, wondering how on earth such beasts came to an end.

 

“They got too large and too ferocious, wiped one another out,” Speirs ventured, Lipton shrugging in agreement.

 

 They parted ways not long after that, Speirs to his hotel and Lipton to join his friends in whatever trouble they had gotten in to.

 

 He spotted them all at Waterloo Station the next morning looking green and regretful. A couple were obviously still drunk as they used a slightly delicate looking Lipton to help heave themselves onto the train while still needling and joking with one another, hands reaching out to drag Lipton in after them before Speirs could say anything.

 

 

                                                                     ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Normandy - _June 1944_**

 

 Sergeant Giuliani rolled the dead kraut upright, patting him down for a MedKit, cigarettes, or documents that might be important, leaving the rest of the back of the Half-Track for Speirs to look over.

 

 There wasn't much that was useful. Empty bullet casings were strewn about and there was half a box of grenades that he pulled out and shoved into a Corporal’s waiting hands. He leant back in for one last look and caught sight of something glinting between the dead man’s feet.

 

 It was a bundle of chocolate bars, French judging from the labels and good quality from the smell. He threw one to their medic and the other to Giuliani, slipping the remainder into his pack.

 

                                                                                      *

_They were making their way back to the rally point after successfully blowing up the German guns firing down onto Utah Beach. Speirs was in quiet conversation with Lt.Winters who now seemed to be in charge of Easy as it was looking like their CO had died on the jump in._

 

_He eventually dropped back to speak to the few men of Dog Company who were with him, ending up walking near to Sergeant Lipton. He was quietly telling off one of his men for apparently running out in the middle of the battle to check if a body had a Luger on it._

 

_The man was sent off looking rightfully chastened for such a foolish act, shooting Speirs a wide eyed, almost frightened look before hurrying off to walk with the other men._

 

_Lipton sighed as he nodded to Speirs. “Sir.”_

 

_“Easy did well today. Even if discipline did fail in parts.”_

 

_“Everyone wants a dam Luger, sir. I'm in half a mind to get one myself to use as blackmail.”_

 

_“Not to keep?”_

 

_Lipton knocked his helmet up off his brow and shrugged. “It'd be nice but I won't go out of my way to get one. What I'm really keen on is some fancy European Chocolate. Hershey is good but ya hear things.”_

 

 _Speirs shook his head, looking at his feet so his low sitting helmet might hide the soft expression he knew was on his face. “Terrible vice you got there Sergeant,” he muttered as he peeled off with the rest of his men to where Dog Company was gathered. He glancing back at the half amused look Lipton was giving him before they went their separate ways._                                                                                      

                                                                                      *

 

  He had not been near Easy since then, Dog being placed on a different part of the line until after Carentan had been taken. Second battalion were all to move out to the forest behind the town to put a break on the German counter attack they all knew would be coming.

 

 As Easy were on his flank he walked over check how well their defences butted up against the ones his men had dug. If he looked about for a certain Sergeant well...the chocolate was taking up room in his pack.

 

 Speirs couldn't see him amongst the soldiers darting backwards and forwards between the undergrowth. He expected him to be busy organising everyone so went back to his part of the line, wandering over again after he had scrounged up some more ammo and double checked his men were all secure and prepared.

 

“Can I help you sir?” a voice asked from one of the foxholes. Speirs recognised the unruly head of hair and drawling voice from what felt like years ago on the steps of a London museum.

 

“Luz is it?”

 

 Warm brown eyes blinked at him in surprise, obviously not expecting to be remembered. “Yes sir.”

 

“I’m looking for Sergeant Lipton.”

 

“He…” Luz hesitated, something passing across his face that made Speirs gut clench,."When we were attacking Carentan the Germans started shelling the place. He got caught in a blast trying to get us out of the streets. Blew him into a wall, he's in hospital…”

 

“Thank you,” Speirs said shortly, turning on his heels and striding back towards his own position.

 

 It was foolhardy to allow himself to get sweet on a guy under normal circumstances, but especially so in war. There was no time for such things, all longings and soft feelings must be put aside for peak effectiveness when facing the enemy. Especially _this_ enemy. It was fundamental for a soldier to forget all hopes, to accept the fact they were already dead men in order to function as all soldiers should- without fear or hesitation. Victory depended upon it.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

 **Holland** _**\- September 1944** _

 

 The plan, as they always tended to do, had gone to shit. The 101st had been without artillery for two days because bad weather stopped it being flown in, slowing them up so one of their objective bridges at Son had been destroyed before they could get to it. They had spent most of their time trying to prevent German tanks from re-taking the bridges they had managed to secure while Easy had been off getting into running firefights through Dutch villages.

 

 It appeared that the ‘old men and boys’ intelligence officers had assured those planning Market Garden were occupying Holland had quite a lot of SS among them. Including the two crack Panzer divisions who had pushed the British and Polish paratroopers off the bridge at Arnhem and forced their surrender.

 

 Seeing as the whole objective of this operation had been Arnhem with its bridge over the Rhine to take the Allies into Germany, Speirs counted the whole thing as a failure. It sat as sourly in his stomach as the orange glow in the night sky that was German retribution on the people of Eindhoven who had been as joyous in their liberation as they had been in their revenge on the collaborators.

 

 It had been hard to passively witness the treatment of the women, but he had not lived with a Gestapo boot to his neck for years so did not feel inclined to pass too much judgement.

 

 He finished his third cigarette in a row, content to continue smoking until he ran out or made himself sick while he walked around where the 101st and British 30 Corp had been pushed back to, stewing over the almost disaster this whole thing had been.

 

 Eyes watched him as he passed; British ones going back to what they were doing when all they saw was an Allied officer, American ones flicking away in the hope he had not caught them staring at him.

 

“Lieutenant Speirs is on the prowl tonight. Better hide any booze boys,” he heard someone say from the stoop of a building.

 

“Why? Don’t he approve?” a voice that clearly belonged to a replacement asked.

 

“Don’t approve? Kid, he shot a guy for being drunk. One of his own men.”

 

“Own men?”

 

“Yeah, this guy was waving his gun around and Speirs shot him point blank right between the eyes.”

 

“Hey now y’all don’t know about that last bit. Ain’t never heard no-one tell it like that before.”

 

“Come on, you’ve seen the guy. Tell me you wouldn’t believe it of him?”

 

“When did it happen?”

 

“D-Day itself. Not the worse thing he got up to around then either. Shot ten German POW’s, gave ‘em all cigarettes first.”

 

“That’s terrible!”

 

“Yeah, terrible waste of cigarettes,” there was a round of laughter that cut off abruptly when Speirs stepped into the weak light cast by the stove they were gathered around.

 

 Some bits of what was said about him were true, some of it was twisted, but most of it was exaggeration. A part of him hated how the rumours were spread with such enthusiastic embellishment and believed with such relish but he was not going to put a stop to it. Softness had no place in war, and having a certain kind of legend around you was of great benefit when getting the best out of your soldiers in battle.

 

“Evening men,” he said, looking each of the B-Company men in their alarmed faces as they hurried to wished him a good evening in return. “You all eaten?”

 

“Heated up our rations Lieutenant Speirs, sir. Better than nothing.”

 

 He nodded, then gestured to the intact the building they were huddled in front of. “Why aren’t you inside?”

 

“Our CO told us to be ready to go, what with Easy being pushed back out of Nuenen and Eindhoven being bombed, sir.”

 

 Speirs pursed his lips as he fiddled with his carton of cigarettes. Soldiers should be prepared anyway to move out at a moments notice while in enemy territory, and having them well rested and relaxed did their own side more good than a bunch of jumpy, tired men.

 

 But who was he to countermand the orders of another Company's commanding officer.

 

“Well, you get some rest.”

 

“Sir.”

 

 He made to go, then turned back. “Any of you care for a smoke?” he almost smiled at the panicked shakes of head and polite, gushing refusals as he slipped one into his own mouth. “Got a light?”

 

 There was some reluctant movement before a gold plated lighter got passed up to him, Speirs examining it after he lit his cigarette. It had obviously been looted as the florid Dutch inscription was dated 1941. Whether it had been taken directly from a civilian or via a kraut he couldn’t tell but it was very nice lighter. He told the small huddled group just how nice he thought it was before slipping it into his pocket and walking away.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Mourmelon - _December 1944_**

 

“We’re moving out in a half hour. I do not have the time to fill out a fucking form!”

 

“There are proper channels. I can’t let one person get away with it or everyone will expect me to…”

 

“These are extenuating circumstances.”

 

“The whole war is an extenuating circumstance. I cannot help you, sir.”

 

 Speirs sent a glare across the counter that could make battle hardened soldiers shift like nervous schoolboys. The Quartermaster on the other side of it did not budge however, giving a apologetic shrug that only served to make Speirs even more annoyed.

 

 Either this man had been so cosy and safe behind the lines that the rumours had not reached him, or he really was so self-important that he thought Speirs wouldn’t dare pull a gun on him. No matter what it was he seemed to notice the men with Speirs shifting nervously, something on their faces making him rock back on his heels as if considering moving out of arms reach.

 

 Speirs planted both hands on the counter and leant in, ready to really threaten this guy but the door crashing open cut his tirade off before it even began.

 

“Joe, Luz - get all winter gear you can. Alley, Bill - K rations. Doc, you know what you need.”

 

 It took him a moment to recognise the voice. He had never heard the firm quality it took on while giving orders before, frozen in shock as he watched Sergeant - no, First Sergeant now - Lipton stride into the brightly lit interior of the stores.

 

 When he had been told that he had been caught in a blast Speirs had thought... He had only been at war eight days back then but he had seen enough to know how terrible those injuries could be - mangled limbs, ruined eyes, white flashes of bone showing through dark red blood. For the past seven months that is what he had believed had happened to this sincere, trustworthy, intelligent man who was his friend.

 

 The only evidence of hurt he could see on him was an angry pink scar running across his cheek. Speirs almost burst out laughing - here he was imagining the worst and Lipton must have been in and out of hospital in a matter of weeks.

 

The Quartermaster bristled. “I need to see a…”

 

“I can get Captain Winters in here if you’d like him to repeat his orders just for you,” Lipton barked, waving the men with him forward. A couple pushed through the door while the others vaulted the counter to get to the stacks in the back room.

 

 When Lipton turned to him Speirs was suddenly afraid that he would see the same guarded unease in his expression that he got from everyone else these days. Instead there was a familiar warmth in the eyes looking at him from the shadow Lipton’s helmet was casting across his face. “If your men would like to resupply as well, sir,” he said, voice gentle, and Speirs almost smiled as he signalled to his men who also jumped the counter to join in ransacking the stores.

 

“Hold on a second, you can’t just…”

 

“Real soon we're gonna be the only thing between you and a whole bunch of German tanks," Speirs snapped as he lead Lipton through the door to the back room. “Think on that.”

 

 Speirs filled half a pack with matches and firelighters - essentials for being outside in mid winter- and the other half with cigarettes - essential for soldiers in general. Socks were another essential, changing them regularly would prevent the thick frost on the ground from giving his men frostbite or trench foot. He took as many as he could before going on to help himself to a few pairs of gloves and some scarves as well.

 

 He turned to find Lipton dumping shovels into the arms of one of Speirs’ sergeants. He looked away, trying to push down a half forgotten warmth that was growing in his chest.

 

 They exited the stores laden down with supplies as the other company's came in, the Quartermaster having given up on regulations and was now helping them out.

 

“Here,” Speirs grunted when they got to the trucks waiting to take them to battle, shoving a scarf and a pair of gloves at Lipton. “Easy’s going to need its First Sergeant where we’re going.”

 

 Lipton frowned as he sorted through the bundle. He made a noise like he had forgotten all about such things for himself as he pulled the gloves on, looking at the scarf, then at Speirs, before placing it back in his hands. “Dog will need it’s best officer just as much.”

 

 Before Speirs could answer an insistent voice started calling for Lipton. He turned towards it before giving Speirs a tight lipped smile, leaving him standing there holding the scarf loosely in his hands as he watched Lipton disappear into the night with Luz in tow.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

 The Ardennes forest was a white hell.

 

 Upon arrival Speirs had idly thought it looked like something from a Christmas card. The snow was thick on the branches of the trees, the solid white blanket of it on the ground giving a satisfying crunch underfoot, the frozen fog glittering like a dream in the brief patches of sunlight breaking through the heavy clouds.

 

 Then the Germans cut the road connecting them to the main Allied army and supplies started to dwindle at an alarming rate. And the shelling started, leaving smears of dirt and blood on the snow. The frozen bodies of people he knew and were responsible for started piling up as the ground was too hard to bury them.

 

 The Germans had been pushed back now, supplies getting through and the wounded, dead and dying could be evacuated.  The bitter cold still wormed its way into your very bones and the shelling did not stop, beautiful snowy trees still exploding into vicious shards of wood sharp enough to go clean through a leg.

 

 As always Easy took the brunt and managed, somehow, to hold firm. What was left of Dog could hear the explosions and yelling from their part of the line further into the trees and looked at one another with the unspoken agreement that they were glad it was no longer them.

 

 In the morning Speirs walked through to Easy for his routine check in. He got the usual nervous glances from everyone apart from Luz who was busy going between brewing some coffee in an upside down helmet and reinforcing his shelter.

 

“Good morning sir,” he said through the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “What can we do you for this fine day?”

 

“Checking the line, seeing how you boys in Easy are doing.”

 

“Us? Juuust peachy. Since you last came by we’ve been tryin’ out a new command structure - get our two good Lieutenants wounded so we’re down to one not so good one whilst having a CO who...well. If we ever saw him I’d say what he was like,” Luz muttered, unbothered as usual by Speirs or his rank.

 

“I know.” Dike was not a man to command men, especially not ones as tightly knit as Easy. Speirs allowed himself the vicious thought that if a shard of wood were to find him and get him away from the front line everyone would be happier. Including Dike.

 

 Luz rubbed at his eyes and moved over to the steaming helmet. “May I be slightly insubordinate sir and ask you to take some coffee to our leader?” he asked, pointing to a foxhole a little ways over, Speirs not missing the amused look the other guy crouching by the stove shot Luz.

 

 He took the mug and picked his way over, smiling when he saw Lipton huddled in the bottom of the foxhole.

 

“Seems like you’ve been promoted,” he said as slid down next to him, amused by the puzzled look he got.

 

“I - oh. Thank you,” Lipton said, taking the mug and cradling it in his hands. Speirs noticed that he was wearing a thin pair of finger-less of gloves instead of the thick ones he'd been wearing since Speirs had given them to him a over month ago. Christ, only a month? It felt like he had never not been in this godforsaken forest. Sometimes he struggled to remember what the world was like outside of it. “I kept on having to take them off to do things and I didn’t want to lose the good ones you gave me,” Lipton said as he noticed Speirs looking at them. “So these are courtesy of a dead kraut.”

 

“They’ve not gone to waste at least.”

 

“Why do I have a promotion?”

 

“Luz pointed me over here and asked me to take that coffee to the CO.”

 

 Lipton shook his head even a blush darkened his cheeks already pink with cold. “Dike says he goes to Battalion HQ but whenever I’ve been up there I’ve not seen him. In fact the only time I see him is when he tells me he’s going to HQ.”

 

“It’s a hell of a situation,” Speirs agreed as he dug out a cigarette. “Dog are barely a company anymore we’ve taken so many losses.” he paused to light it. “Talk is once this is over those of us left are going to become part of Easy.”

 

“We’ll have one good Officer at least,” Lipton said with a smile, plucking the cigarette from his fingers and taking a drag, clearing his throat when Speirs raised eyebrows as he handed it back. “That last shelling Luz and me ended up in the foxhole he’s fixing up. One went off right next to us,” he flicked the rim of his helmet, “blew this clean off my head. Then when we thought it was all over one hit the dirt right at our feet. It was a dud of course, just sat there steaming,” he shivered and took a sip of coffee, handing the mug to Speirs and the heat made his chilled fingers prickle. “Didn’t scare me that much, I'm used to explosions by now. Then George flicked opened his lighter and that made me jump for...oh must have been the first time in over a year. And now I smoke.”

 

“This place has done worse to people,” Speirs said quietly, handing the coffee back. Bastogne broke men down, had driven a few out of their mind and Speirs suspected they were more sane than those who were left behind.

 

“I could’ve died twice this year. That’s two times more than in the twenty-three years I’ve lived before I came to Europe. I thought...” he paused as if he wasn’t sure he should continue, holding the coffee closer to his chest. “...I had a girl. Could’ve married her. Both times I looked death in the face I thought I’d regret not doing it but I was just glad she wouldn’t have to be my widow.”

 

“I didn’t have a girl in the States, nor in England. I was too busy going around with you.”

 

 He looked at Lipton who was looking right back with his warm, dark eyes. An understanding passed between them which had been growing since Ron had walked up to him in Toccoa on an evening so warm he, shivering in a hole in France, could barely believe it had been possible.

 

 Lipton set the mug on the ground next to him, wiggling it slightly to dig it into the dirt so it would not tip, reaching out to pluck the cigarette right out of Speirs’ mouth. He did not look away as he took a deep drag, pressing his lips very deliberately into the paper and holding it there a moment before handing it back. Speirs could feel his warmth as he put the cigarette back between his lips. He knew Lipton’s mouth would taste the same as his - of fear, coffee, tobacco, and not enough toothpaste - letting their cold fingers brush as he handed it over just so he could watch Lipton wrap his lips around it again.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Somewhere in France - _1945_**

 

“Sergeant Martin.”

 

 The man turned away from the group he was herding back to the trucks and came up to where Speirs was consulting the map spread out on the hood of his Jeep, trying to work out how much longer they had to spend driving down the featureless roads of the frozen, endless French countryside. “Sir?”

 

“I know the French are our allies but we don’t need to fraternize quite that much.”

 

 Martin followed his gaze to where a couple of the local women were up in the back of a truck and his eyes narrowed. “On it sir,” he said, not taking his eyes off them as he marched over. “Talbert! Put that mademoiselle _down_!”

 

“Sergeant Randleman, everyone eaten?”

 

“Like kings sir.”

 

“Good.”

 

 Speirs folded up the map and tucked it back into his jacket alongside his compass. He touched the new Captain’s pip’s on his collar as he did a quick headcount of his men hauling themselves back into the trucks, shaking his head at the total. Even with Dog being merged into Easy they were still barely at full company strength of one-hundred fifty. 

 

So much for the Germans throwing their hands up as soon as the Allies landed in Normandy.

 

 “Capt’in Speirs suh?” Doc Roe was a startling pale face with a bright red nose right in the centre, narrow shoulders hunched close to his body, looking the very picture of cold. “First Sergeant Lipton has a real bad cough suh. He shouldn't outta be sittin’ in the back of those uncovered trucks.”

 

 Speirs looked over the Cajun’s head at the convoy and sighed. It was Roe’s job to worry about everyone's health but they were all running on empty, held together by one another and the whisper that this war might almost be over. None of them should be sitting in those trucks but that’s just how it was.

 

 “Scavenge blankets and bundle him up. See if the locals have any honey for him or something.”

 

 Roe made the seriousness of the situation clear by stepping closer. “It’s on its way to becoming pneumonia if we are not careful, suh.”

 

 That changed things. “Will moving into a Jeep help?”

 

“Some. Two nights in the warm would be best.”

 

“There’s nowhere warm on this dam continent.”

 

“Suh.”

 

 Roe loped off as Speirs headed for the lead truck, Perconte trying not to choke on the toothbrush he always seemed to have in his mouth when Speirs stepped silently up to the back.

 

“I need to discuss things with you First Sergeant. You’ll ride with me," Lipton nodded, pale and bleary eyed, Speirs not missing the obvious concern on everyone’s face as they watched him gingerly jump down onto the cobblestones, blanket in hand. “Give me his stuff,” he ordered, holding his hands out for Luz to dump Lipton’s rifle and kit bag in to.

 

“I can…” Lipton started, voice hoarse, ducking his head when Speirs shot him a look and hefted the kit bag onto his shoulder.

 

“A moment,” Speirs said as he deposited his cargo into the back of the Jeep, tugging his scarf out of his collar and stepping up to Lipton to wind it around his neck. He did not ignore the flush spreading across Lipton’s sickly pale cheeks, catching his eye and was satisfied to see it get darker. He did ignore Luz and Perconte’s snooping, heads poking out un-subtly between the struts for the truck's missing canopy, because he did not care.

 

 Lipton hunkered down in the passenger seat, tucking the blanket around his shoulders as Speirs stood in the drivers side to look down the line of the convoy to check everyone was ready, pumping his fist in the air to signal them to move out.

 

 He pulled his Jeep in behind the truck full of supplies, passing the group of women Martin had pulled off of Talbert. They were calling out in French and laughing amongst themselves while the convoy rumbled past. He did not disapprove; they had lived the past five years under an oppressive occupying regime, they deserved to be joyful and youthfully silly - he could barely believe it but he was only twenty-four himself - he just wished they would not stand out in the open like a target.

 

“There’s no Germans near here,” Lipton said quietly as if he had been thinking the same thing.

 

“I know.”

 

“What did you need to discuss?” Lipton asked quietly when they hit the outskirts of the town, the only sound the rumble of the vehicles as the men in them fell into a morose, exhausted silence.

 

“Nothing. I wanted you out of those trucks. Can’t have you getting any worse.”

 

 He expected at least a token protest but Lipton just sighed. “Thank you.”

 

 They drove in a comfortable silence for a few miles, staring at the back of the truck in front as the only other thing to look at was the ripped up winter countryside and they’d had enough of that in Bastogne. Lipton seemed to be relieved by the relative shelter given by the windscreen and the trucks surrounding them. He had his face ducked into Speirs’ scarf, his knee bumping against Speirs fingers resting on the gear stick as he tried not to doze off between coughs

 

“Call me Ron.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Call me Ron. You’re a Lieutenant now in all respects except for an official piece of paper, and still officially my Senior NCO. And my...”

 

 There was a beat of silence, Speirs feeling his ears heat under his helmet as the ice in the air seemed to bite harder at his skin.

 

“I go by Carwood,” the touch he gave the back of Speirs' hand was fleeting but sure enough that he could not deny doing it.

 

 He surprised himself by teasing gently. “Can I call you Woody?”

 

“I wouldn’t advise it, _Ronnie._ ”

 

 Ron felt his lips quirk in am unexpected smile as he glanced over at Carwood who was giving him a level look before a vicious cough rattled out of him that did not let off for a four damp days and six long nights.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Hagenau- _1945_**

 

“Death must become routine in war, but when it is caused by mistakes and foolish orders it is a hard pill to swallow.”

 

 Carwood set his pen down on the piece of wood set across his knees he was using as a makeshift desk, staring down at the letter he was writing to Jackson’s family. It should have been Ron's job, but Carwood, grudgingly enduring his enforced rest in the only non-draughty room in the shattered town, had volunteered to do it. With his naturally gentle sincerity he had more of a way with these things than Ron did. His economical, direct tone was a struggle to make comforting. Especially in letters.

 

“The war is almost over and it's not dangerous to them anymore.”

 

“You couldn't have done anything.”

 

“He knew better and was careless,” Carwood touched the Lieutenants bar on his jacket laid over his legs, looking as old as Ron felt. “Officer, sergeant or nothing, I couldn’t have saved him.” He shivered for moment before continuing the letter. Ron dozed in the rickety chair set next to the bed as he listened to the scratch of pen on paper and the tick of the carriage clock he had taken from a bombed out building, neither of them reacting to the occasional whine of an incoming shell nor the explosion that followed.

 

 Last night the elderly couple whose house they were billeted in had given Ron half a bottle of schnapps and a strudel still warm from the oven for Carwood, claiming it would cure him. He had winced his way through all of it and then slept soundly for the first time in days, waking up looking and sounding so much better Ron was going to make a gift of the clock to the couple in thanks.

 

 But he was not cured yet, Ron jolting out of his chair when Carwood started to cough. He was a man of action, a problem solver, and it itched under his skin that he was utterly powerless to do anything except sooth Carwood until the fit died out, handing him a canteen of water to sip from.

 

 He had spent the last week curled around Carwood during the freezing nights trying to give him what little body-heat he had to spare. He would lay awake after a coughing fit listening to his laboured breathing, fearing what would happen to Easy if Carwood had to go off the line. Fearing what it would do to him.

 

 His country had asked him to risk his life, to kill, and he did so with the cold professionalism expected of him. He pushed aside all pity and fear, any thing that might make him hesitate in his duty, and it felt like Carwood was the only thing the war had let Ron keep to remind him that he was still human.  

 

 Before he had spoken one word to him Carwood had caught his attention. Knowing him had lodged him in the space under Ron’s heart and filled it with warmth instead of the usual ache that came with wanting what you could not have. His affections were as good and honest as the man who inspired them but sometimes, when Ron was going through an abandoned house looking for valuables or saw his men kiss girls in the street they could barely communicate with, he wondered if allowing Carwood a normal life free of secrecy and untainted by him would not be a truer show of his heart.

 

“Ron,” Carwood broke him out of his thoughts, patting the space on the bed between him and the wall in a way that brooked no argument so Ron climbed over him to settle there, being careful of his boots on the blanket.

 

 They sat quietly with their shoulders pressed together until Ron could no longer hear the wheeze in his breathing. “Carwood I...I can’t offer you my arm or take you to the pictures or ask if I can call, but I want to treat you right. To show you my respect and affection. I want things between us to be done as properly as they can be.”

 

“A guy might think you’re asking them to step out with you," Carwood smiled.

 

 Ron hunkered down into the collar of his jacket before looking at him. “I...well.”

 

“Oh,” he said quietly. “You don’t...yes. All right.”

 

“All right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good. That’s good,” Ron smiled. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

 

 Carwood raised an eyebrow at him. “Pneumonia gets you going, huh?” he said, then seemed to realise what he had said and let out a couple of dry hacking coughs.

 

“Just about you, about peacetime and us sitting together like we do now,” he pressed their shoulders together. "And on the odd occasion maybe something a little indecent.”

 

 That made Carwood laugh, which sent him into another coughing fit and Ron scrambling for the canteen of water.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

****Somewhere in Germany** _\- April 1945_ **

 

 Ron had found a few dusty records of pre-war American music in the last town they had spent the night in and a player for them in their current one. He dropping the whole lot off with Sargent Martin for the men to use in their recreational time with the suggestion that letting them play it in the fresh, warming air of the open square instead of cooped up inside might be good for them.

 

“Babe is trying to teach Doc Roe to jitterbug,” Carwood said from where he was indulging the men who had shouted up at his window from where they were spilling out of the little local bar and filling the square with music and high spirits. “Luz and Perconte are actually doing it”.

 

“Their height is suited.”

 

 Carwood turned, the sweet warmth of a spring evening doing more for the pink in his cheeks than the glass (fine crystal, borrowed as they wouldn’t survive being shipped to the states) of wine (liberated from the Mayor’s cellar) he had been nursing through dinner (provided by the Mayor’s cook in return for not being kicked out of her apartment).

 

 Ron set down his fork (silver, the whole set to be shipped home the next morning) wiped his mouth on a napkin and stood, pulling Carwood away from the window. “Care to dance?”

 

 Carwood’s eyes widened, glancing back at the open window that was letting in the tinny music and smiled as he realised Ron’s scheme. “I don’t think there’s enough room in here to jitterbug.”

 

“I only know how to two-step.”

 

 Carwood put his glass down. “That’ll do.”

 

 Ron took his hand, Carwood setting his other on Ron’s shoulder when he gripped his is waist with a decisiveness that the moment did not merit but he could not help. He was slightly the taller but Carwood had always had a solid physical strength (Ron would never tell him but his long, strong legs in those god-awful PT shorts had been what had first caught his eye) even if he tried to carry himself like a smaller man. The body under the sturdy material of his shirt had not yet recovered from almost starving in a frozen forest and then catching pneumonia. He felt thin but not delicate, the warm, rough hand holding his still strong.

 

 They shuffled more than did an actual two-step - the room was really not that big. The music drifting in through the window became slow and romantic before there was the sound of a scuffle and something loud and brassy was playing again.

 

 Carwood smiled at the unseen antics, shaking his head but saying nothing. He was a reassuring, calm presence amongst the characters and tempers of Easy Company, sincere and dutiful in his care for the men and was repaid by the high regard and affection they had for him. Other companies would have fallen apart if their command structure had disintegrated like Easy’s had in Bastogne but Carwood had been a rock, stalwart and capable, and had dragged them all through it.

 

 He had also accepted Ron when few others had. Carwood saw something in the man behind the soldier that had him allowing Ron this close, had encouraged it from the moment Ron let him see he wanted to _be_ this close.

 

“I like your eyes,” Ron said because it was true, tightening his hold on Carwood’s waist when he smiled at him.

 

“I like yours. They’re very clear.”

 

“I don’t blink a lot. It puts people off.”

 

“It doesn’t put me off.”

 

 Ron breathed in deeply and let it out slowly, fingers pressing into the back of Carwood's hand. “May I kiss you?” 

 

“You don't need to ask.”

 

“I do. You’re not something I can take just ‘cause I want it.”

 

 Carwood stopped, eyes flicking over Ron’s face. “No, I’m not, ” he agreed quietly, leaning into the hand on his waist as he tilted his head so all Ron need do was drop his chin and they were kissing, chaste at first and not heating up to much more than sweet. And Carwood was sweet. His lips were sweet, his strong fingers in Ron’s hair were sweet, his little sounds were sweet, even the way he swayed in close was sweet.

 

 Ron doubted he was as sweet but Carwood did not seem to mind. They traded kisses until Ron’s lips started to tingle and he felt like he could jump into Berlin and punch Hitler's lights out on the strength of it.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Berchtesgaden _\- May 1945_**

 

 Carwood looked around, checking for signs of movement as he weighed the projectile in his hands. He glanced back at Speirs who gave a nod, .45 cocked and ready in his hand.

 

 With a quiet grunt Carwood launched it into the air, Ron squinting against the sun to take aim and pulled the trigger. The sound of glass shattering quick on the heels of the crack of his gun as the bottle shattered, raining green glass onto the rocks and trees underneath the balcony.

 

 If at any other time Ron had the luck to drink over eight-hundred dollars worth of champagne he would have kept at least one bottle as a memory of the occasion instead gathering up everyone's empties to use as target practise. But this was Hitler's booze, and as the bastard had already shot himself while cowering in his hole blowing the hell out of his stuff would have to do.

 

“Pol Roger next or a Vermouth?”

 

“Who the hell drank drank a goddam bottle of fucking Vermouth?” Ron slurred around the cigarette he was letting burn down between his lips.

 

 Carwood shrugged as he inspected the bottle in question. Ron blinked at him, trying to work out if his gentle swaying had more to do with the amount of alcohol he himself had consumed rather than Carwood's own state of mild inebriation.

 

 The clean mountain sunshine lit the smooth planes of his face when he looked over to make sure Ron was ready. He pulled his arm back, chucking the bottle like a frisbee so it careered out into space. Ron took a moment to get his aim right before he shot that one as well, smiling to himself as Carwood applauded him.

 

 Ron flopped down on one of the sun loungers (they felt out of place - he didn't like the idea of these people sunbathing while millions died) and took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Come here Lieutenant”, he ordered, tracking Carwood with his eyes as he came to sit in the spot Ron patted by his hip.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Wanted to sit with you.”

 

 Carwood ducked his head as he smiled. His knee was a comforting press against Ron's thigh when he shifted to turn his face towards the view and into the warm sunshine, content to sit quietly and let Ron look at him. Like most people in the world he was no Cary Grant but he did not suffer from it. Ron would rather look at him than anyone else and certainly any dramatic, glorious mountain scene. He did not often manage to get more than nervous grimaces or polite, tight lipped smiles from people and yet Carwood, who was decent and kind and in possession of an internal strength and bravery that was all the more admirable for how un-showy it was, always had a bright smile readily there for him. Lighting up his dark eyes with a warmth that Ron swore he could feel down to his bones.

 

 He dropped his cigarette, reaching out to grab Carwood’s arm and his attention, hauling him down against him for a kiss.

 

 It was maybe a little stupid to kiss him out in the open like this, but with the ten thousand bottles of the finest alcohol Europe had to offer which had been liberated from Hermann Göring’s wine cellar and shared out amongst the men, Ron doubted anyone would be sober enough to realise or remember if they caught them.

 

 Carwood’s fingers curled into his shirt, other hand brushing his collar as he settled his weight against Ron at his encouragement. He ran his hands up Carwood’s biceps and over the breadth of his shoulders, feeling him smile into the kiss as he ran them leisurely down his back, one resting south of the waistband of his trousers while the other touched his thigh.

 

                                                           

                                                                                      *

 _Many things had been found at Berchtesgaden; stolen art, a_ lot _of alcohol, plenty of small valuables to vanish into pockets, a visitors book full of names which had been whisked away by Captain Nixon to the intelligence services, and a fleet of very nice Mercedes cars._

 

_Ron had found the garage and so, under the ancient law of Finders Keepers, had claimed the finest one there for himself. He would drive at speed, the rich growl of the gleaming engine as thrilling as the swell of its power under his hands. Ron loved the feeling of flying the smooth suspension gave as he looked down at the tree's and valleys flashing past beneath the immaculately kept high mountain roads._

 

_He used it to take him and Carwood to check the roadblocks and that the guard duties were going off without a hitch (occasionally giving a man a lift back as he did not begrudge the delight these battle hardened veterans took in the vehicle) as well as anything else they needed to do outside of the Company area. No-one said anything when they took a little longer than they should as everyone was making the most of the warm sunshine and not being shot at._

 

_Ron had parked up on a wooded track off the main road and they made use of the large backseat to stretch out. Ron smoking as he watched Carwood tip his head back against the soft leather headrest to soak up the sun slanting through the branches, the years Bastogne had added to him faded away._

 

_He reached out and dragged Carwood over by his lapel so he was half laid against him, tilting his head so he could breathe smoke into his mouth, their lips brushing._

 

_“Novel way of sharing a smoke,” Carwood had murmured as he turned his head to exhale._

 

_They shared the rest of the cigarette like that. Ron lost track of where his free hand ran as it explored the span of Carwood’s shoulders and the length of his back until it was suddenly resting with a possessive weight on Carwood’s behind, fingertips absently pressing to test the firmness._

 

_He snatched it back as soon as he realised, unable to look Carwood in the eye as he tried to sit up._

 

_“It's okay,” Carwood said gently, tugging on Ron's sleeve so he stopped moving._

 

_“I didn't mean anything by it,” he said in a rush, knowing he blushed when Carwood put his hand back._

 

_“I don’t mind,” Ron looked at him, heart thumping hard behind his ribs, mouth dry and tongue heavy. His breath caught when Carwood frowned and pressed a hand to his chest. “Good lord your heart is racing. Ron it's fine…”_

 

_“I love you.”_

 

_Carwood's mouth was still open from speaking as he blinked at him. The dark eyes Ron loved so much widened in understanding before becoming unreadable as he took all of his warmth and comforting weight away by sitting up. Ron was not sure he had ever felt fear until that moment, aware of every change in Carwood's expression, of every tiny sound around them._

 

_And then Carwood had smiled._

 

_*_

 

 

“I don't have my Mercedes anymore,” Ron said, looking down at Carwood who was squeezed next to him on the lounger.

 

“If you're going to tell me you ran it off the road...”

 

“Well.”

 

“Ron! You did not!”

 

“Colonel Strayer wanted it as it reminds him of his car at home…” Carwood snorted in disbelief and Ron shot him a chastising look even though he was grinning. “I of course said no. Possession is nine tenths of the law and I sure as hell had the possession of it. He ordered me to give it over and I said I'd bring it tomorrow with a full tank....”

 

“He could not have believed that!”

 

“I took it back to Company and while Webster, Liebgott, and Talbert looked on I emptied a clip of armour piercing rounds into it. It was not as bulletproof as rumour would have it,” Carwood shook his head at him. “Then to see how indestructible it really was - for Strayer’s safety you see - I drove it up the road that goes to the cliff edge…”

 

“Oh no.”

 

“...and I slid out of the driver's seat before it went over the side.”

 

“You’re somethin’ else. ”

 

“That sonofabitch was not gonna drive around in where you first said you loved me.”

 

 Carwood twisted as he sat up so he could look down at Ron. “That's very romantic.”

 

“Don't tease me.”

 

“I mean it.”

 

“Good,” he pulled a bundle out of his pocket and handed it over to Carwood. “Its a square of the leather upholstery and the center of one of the hubcaps, see the Mercedes logo is in silver. For a momento.”

 

“Oh Ron," Carwood breathed as he laid them on his thigh.

 

“I was going to give you the lighter from the glove compartment also, but I like to light your cigarettes for you when we don't split them,” Carwood reached out to tangle their fingers together. “I took the same things for myself as I've given you. So it matches,” he tilted his head so Carwood could kiss him. “I also prized all the silver and mahogany off the interior. I'll have something made of it later.”

 

 Carwood collapsed back down next to him laughing, clutching his momento to his chest, smiling still when Ron boxed him in with a hand on the armrest as he leant down to kiss him.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Zell am see - _August 1945_**

 

 The light of the Austrian summer was warm and golden, refracting off the lake outside the window so it was as soft as it was bright.

 

 It reminded Ron of the convent in Rachamps after they had come out of the Ardennes. Where men who had not been indoors in over a month and had pushed the Germans out of three villages had sat in reverent silence as they listened to the girls choir singing softly for them, bathed in the light of what felt like a thousand candles.

 

 They had all been disgusting; uniforms worn shabby, covered in dirt and blood and unwashed just like their bodies, hair uncut and faces unshaven. And yet Carwood had glowed just like he was now, as if all the shit of war had not touched his soul, and Ron, whose own soul had always seemed destined for war and had never run from anything, had left for Battalion HQ rather than be looked at so gently.

 

 Carwood was sat up in bed, sheet around his waist and knees pulled up so he could rest his elbows on them, chin in his hand as he looked out of the window. Ron was still laying in the same prone position he had collapsed into bed last night, an arm hanging half off the bed and legs kicked out at an angle, after visiting Grant in hospital.

 

 The man who shot him had been taken to France for court martial in case his own company tried to do him harm or Easy changed their mind about letting him live. A decision Ron's shaking hands were glad of.

 

 He reached out and brushed fingertips over the scar on Carwoods upper arm from the blast in Normandy. Slipping his fingers under the sleeve of his undershirt to feel the line of his shoulder blade, pulling his hand away only to slip it beneath the hem of his shirt to touch the warm skin of his back, resting it on his side to feel his healthy breathing.

 

“You look lovely in this light.”

 

 Carwood turned to him as Ron sat up. He batted his hands away and pulled off his undershirt himself when Ron tried to tug it over his head, going for the buttons of the shirt Ron had slept it next. He got half of them undone before Ron lost patience and shoved him to lay flat, curling an arm around his head as he leant over him.

 

 He was almost kissing him when Carwood breathed. “I can’t believe…”

 

 Ron pulled back to look at him but nothing else seemed forthcoming. “What?”

 

 Carwood shrugged. “You look straight out of a magazine is all. A fancy one, not a dirty one,” he said, grinning when Ron’s face heated so fiercely he was sure it was quite unattractive. Carwood pushed his shirt off his shoulders and ducked down to press kisses to the curve of his collarbone that made heat zing down Ron’s spine right to his toes.

 

 The war in Europe was over now. Ron was going to take full advantage of the large bed, thick walls, and secure locks on the doors of the high class hotel they were billeted in. He dragged his shirt and undershirt off, kicking off his skivvies, reaching for Carwood’s and finding they were already off.

 

 Pushing back the sheets, Ron touched Carwood’s knee to gently encourage him to open his legs. He tripped his fingers up the inside of Carwood's thigh to touch the jagged line of the smooth, raised scar dangerously close to his groin, Carwood watching him with widening eyes as Ron curled over to kiss it.

 

“Ron!” he barked in a strangled voice and Ron slid back up his body to kiss the scar on his cheek, letting his leg rest between Carwood’s.

 

 They’d all heard the tales from the guys who’d been lucky enough to score a pass to Paris about what the Madam’s there would do for a naïve American GI. Ron had always been amused by how hard Carwood would try to not be obviously shocked by it. He had found his way into the restricted section of the Library while at College so the excited boasts had been old news to him. In fact it was one of the least surprising acts Ron had heard of, or seen, or done.

 

“Did I shock you? It was only a kiss.”

 

 Carwood narrowed his eyes at him. “No you did not. It’s only…” he shifted, looking embarrassed. “No-one’s...I’m not sure about it yet.”

 

“That’s fine.”

 

“Besides,” Carwood said, slipping his fingers into Ron’s hair and pulling him in for a kiss. “I want you where I can see you.”

 

 _I always want you where I can see you_ , echoed in Ron’s head.  _I want you safe and bathed in warm light laid on soft cotton sheets forever._ Such declarations would not scare Carwood away but he kept them to himself all the same, instead scraping his stubble against Carwood’s throat to make his breath hitch as he arched against him.

 

“How d'ya want to go about this?” Carwood asked gently, running a hand over Ron’s chest when he pulled back to quirk a questioning eyebrow at him. “Even good West Virginian boys know what they teach you in college about what those Greeks and Romans got up to,” he teased, laughing when Ron dug his fingers into his sides.

 

 He wanted Carwood to squeeze his legs together so he could slip between his thighs, wanted him to get on his knees so he could grab his ass while doing that. But they were finally, blissfully free from war, and he found he needed closeness much more than the sating of his imaginings in the warm body beneath him, in the man who he wanted to kiss until his mouth hurt. Wanted to be looked at like he had never forgotten he’d been anything but a soldier.

 

 “Hold on,” Ron crawled off the bed and went to get the tin of Vaseline (standard issue for the treatment of minor burns and cuts) from his kit bag. “It’s not for. Well…”

 

“I know. You’d ask first,” Carwood was almost teasing him but his eyes were sincere and trusting, expression as warm as if he had been smiling. Ron kissed him, losing track of time and purpose as he pressed him down into the pillows, teeth nipping at his lips and as he licked into his mouth. Carwood’s strong hand tangled in his hair while the other ran from his rib cage down to Ron’s hip and back again.

 

“Open your legs,” he said gently, moving to give Carwood room to do so. He encouraged them open a little more before kneeling between them, only intending to slick himself but then Carwood shifted onto his elbows to openly watch his hand moving over his dick. A bright warmth settled in Ron’s stomach at the admiration in his eyes and he ended up showing off a little in his own way. He watched Carwood watching him roll his hips into his hand until the need to touch him, sprawled out in front of him on soft sheets like a decadence, became too much.

 

 Ron dropped down to slide his greased hand up the inside of Carwood’s leg as he set his teeth to lightly nip at the other. He kissed the scar again, running the flat of his tongue over it and Carwood let out noise Ron wanted to hear again and again as he collapsed back againt the pillows.

 

 Ron moved up his body quickly to kiss him, Carwood tilting his hips without prompting so that when Ron pressed down they slid smoothly together, surprising a gasp out of the both of them.

 

 It was clumsy at first, too busy kissing one another to get into a good rhythm. Their dicks slid and caught against one another until Ron grasped Carwoods hip with a growl of frustration, Carwood wrapping his legs around him to pull him closer as Ron got them moving together, their moans gasped against spit slick lips. Ron braced his knees on the mattress to rut against him harder, faster, encouraged by the noises Carwood was making, digging his fingers into his hip when a shudder ran through him. “I’m…” Carwood started, bucking a little wildy, hands gripping desperately at the sheets as he came between them, Ron catching every little sound that he made for him.

 

 He was wound tight, wanting to grind Carwood against him until he added to the mess on his stomach but distracted himself by pressing kisses to his throat to try and calm the tremble he could feel running through him. Ron gasped when Carwood tugged him up by the hair to nose him into a kiss. “You can keep going,” he breathed, smoothing his hands over Ron’s ribs when he pushed down against him with a groan. Carwood dropped his legs and let them lay wide open as Ron began rocking against him again, staring down at Carwood’s flushed face and bright eyes. He had made his few previous partners uncomfortable by doing that but Carwood just pushed Ron’s hair off his forehead while reaching between them to give Ron his hand to thrust into.

 

“Fuck,” Ron shifted his grip on Carwood’s hip so his hand was almost grabbing his ass. “You feel really good.”

 

“Ron…”

 

“You're lovely.”

 

 Carwood tightened his fingers in Ron’s hair, craning his head to scrape his teeth over his jaw. “Not so bad yourself, handsome.”

 

 It was the smooth purr in his voice that had Ron’s hips jerking through his orgasm, groaning out loud, toes curling against the sheets.

 

 He lay with his face buried in Carwood’s shoulder, allowing himself to luxuriate in the feel of strong hands soothing over his back until it got too hot and sweaty between them. Ron pressing kisses to Carwood’s mouth as he raised up on his elbows. “Okay?”

 

“Yes. You?”

 

 Ron grinned. “Very,” he kissed Carwood again when he flushed, trailing his lips down over his neck and chest as Ron moved back to kneeling between his legs. He paused at their combined messes on his stomach to glance up at Carwood before dragging his tongue along the edge of it.

 

“Stop trying to shock me.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

 Carwood brushed his cheek. “No you’re not.”

 

 Ron did not try to deny that, smacking a kiss to Carwood’s palm before sitting up, running his hands from Carwood’s knees to the junction of his thighs and back again taking a moment to look at him.

 

“We should clean up,” he declared with a sigh before flopping down onto the bed and not moving for a good ten minutes.

 

 Between kisses and touches they both got washed up and dressed. Ron leant on the end of the bed as he watched Carwood, still glowing like a figment of his imagination, adjust the Lieutenants uniform he had not yet got used to. The cut of the jacket showed him off wonderfully and Ron had to run hands over his strong shoulders, fitting them to his trim waist as he kissed his cheek on the way to dig out his own jacket.

 

 At the door he placed his hand over where he knew a purpleing hand-print was forming on Carwood’s hip as he kissed him. He liked the thought of Carwood carrying it around under his clothes the whole day and had to keep his mind from wandering to it while he wrote reports or discussed training for if they were redeployed out to the Pacific. Fighting an even bigger battle when he realised the pleasant ache in his hips whenever he sat or stood would be the same for Carwood.

 

 He cornered him in the room they were sharing at the end of the day. Ron got most of their clothes off and backed him against the wall, having Carwood press his legs together so he could rut between his thighs. He pressed against his front so his belly rubbed against Carwood’s dick, panting and moaning into one another's mouths as their hands ran everywhere they could touch.

 

 The fighting was over. All the statesmen and generals were concerned about was who got to keep what, and as Carwood clung to him, gasping into Ron’s shoulder as they came within moments of one another, Ron knew he was going to be keeping the prize outshining all the other spoils of war.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**England- _1946_**

 

“We never did get to see Berlin,” Nixon declared as he appeared from the crowd of American and Canadian paratroopers eyeing one another across the pleasant country pub near where they were stationed as they waited to be shipped back across the Atlantic.

 

“What’s there to see?” Harry said as he helped Nix set down the tray of drinks he was carrying. ”It’s a pile of rubble full of Ruskies.”

 

“A pile of rubble it may be,” Nixon downed a glass of whiskey before handing Winters his tonic water, sitting down next to him with another whiskey in his hand. "But it’s a pile of rubble we spent three years trying to get to. It’s the principle of the thing. You agree with me don’tcha Lip?”

 

“Well, yes," Carwood agreed as he took the drink Ron passed him. “After all the smashed up places we’ve seen it’d be worse to see it all nice and pristine.”

 

 Nixon pointed at him with his drink as the men who were with them helped themselves to the round he’d bought. “The only man in the goddam 101st with his head screwed on properly.”

 

“I dunno sir,” Luz put in as he picked up a couple of beers. “Colonel Winters has always been levelheaded.”

 

“Thank you George.”

 

“That may be so, but he doesn’t drink”

 

 Winters grinned, shaking his head as the men laughed with him, Harry and Nixon jostling him between their shoulders.

 

“Goddam it Nixon if you weren’t a drunken s.o.b you’d be running the whole goddam ETO,” Luz announced in a perfect version of Colonel Sink’s voice as he made his way back into the crowd who laughed and yelled at him to do impressions of their voices.

 

 Ron glanced over at Carwood who was watching Luz go with a grin on his face that had a sad tilt to it. The world was at peace, everyone was safe, but soon the people they had come to be as close to as family would be spread out all across the states. Speirs had not been their CO for all that long and he would regret to see them go, but these had been Lipton’s boys for years and Ron knew he would miss them just as much as they would miss him.

 

 He pushed his knee into Carwood’s thigh, watching him jolt out of his reverie with a glance at Ron. He shot him a smile to assure he was okay as he took a sip of beer. “Berlin isn’t going anywhere, I’m sure we’ll get to come back at some point.”

 

“Yeah at some point, when we made enough money and got sick of the States.”

 

“Lewis," Winters sighed.

 

“We’ve seen London and Paris. You tell me Jersey is going to live up to that!”

 

“You’re looking to go to Jersey when we get back then?” Harry asked.

 

 Lewis slung his arm over Winter’s shoulders with a grin. “He’s bummed a job off me at the ol’ family business.”

 

“Don’t listen to him, he begged me to take it,” Winters said. “Needed someone to put up with him in civilian life.”

 

 They laughed and Nixon put on an outraged face. “Don't all rush to defend me!” he cried and then laughed, getting Winters in a brief headlock before letting him go.

 

“I’m going to go straight home and…" Harry started, the four of them finishing off for him. “ _Marry Kitty.”_

 

Harry laughed. “Well I am! And you’re all invited”, he motioned to Ron. “Even you Sparky,” he pointed at Nixon before Ron could react to the nickname. “But not you Nix, you’ll have more fun crashing it anyway.”

 

“You know me too well Welsh, and just for that I shan’t crash it at all and you’ll be a gift down.” Nixon said airily, making Harry grin.

 

“What are you gonna do Carwood?” Winters asked as he sipped his drink.

 

“Finish my engineering degree with the GI bill.”

 

“Apply to Yale, I'll put in a good word as an alumni,” Nixon said, tapping his hand on the table between them.

 

“I'm not sure I'm Yale material,” Carwood shrugged, smiling when Harry told him to apply for Penn State so he’d be nearby. “But I might try for some Boston colleges.”

 

“Not Harvard!” Nixon all but wailed as Ron said, “Oh, Boston?”, with such well acted surprise he could tell Carwood was trying very hard not to burst out laughing.

 

“Yes,” he managed, pressing his lips together against a smile.

 

“When you get accepted you can come room with me if you like, Lieutenant.”

 

“I thought you were staying in the army?” Winters asked while Nixon glanced between them.

 

“I am, but I'm transferring to a base closer to home.”

 

 Nixon hummed as he sipped his drink. “Seems like you two planned that.”

 

“Almost like you planned to get Colonel Winters to Jersey,” Carwood shot back.

 

 Ron watched the two of them stare one another down across the table, Harry oblivious and Winters choosing to ignore it, before Nixon clinked his glass gently against Carwood’s.,“Touché Lip. Touché.”

 

 One of the locals started up a song on the vaguely tuned piano that everyone joined in whether they knew the words or not. Harry leapt up to join in with the men while Nixon sung half-nonsense at Winters until he joined in with an arm slung around him.

 

 Ron was only partly paying attention to them. He was watching Luz and Alley drag Carwood out of his chair as Blood on the Risers started up, allowing himself to be persuaded to join in by Luz who swiped the last whiskey off the tray from under Nixon's nose with a wink as he threw himself into an off-key mock-falsetto rendition of the song with his usual gusto.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Boston - _August 1953_**

  

 It was a cooler, more rainy evening than usual when Carwood returned from dropping his nephew off for the weekend. Robbie had been in Boston for the past three years - a very long time by a child's reckoning- and would be returning to Huntington in time for the new school year. Carwood had let him off weekend chores so he might spend time with the friends he had made and would soon be leaving, knowing very well how sharp the ache was of missing those you were close to.

 

 Carwood’s brother had been too young for the Second War, but not too old for the Korean one when it came. His sister-in-law had known from the outset that she would struggle to cope with three young children whilst taking up her husbands duties at the boarding house. So, for the good of all the children, the oldest had been sent to live with his Uncle Carwood.

 

 He was a smart, friendly boy. Carwood would miss him a lot but would not regret his leaving if it meant another war was over and his brother was coming home safe.

 

 He let himself into the quiet apartment, toeing off his shoes and hanging up his cap and jacket, reminding himself to get Ron’s clothes out of the back of the closet to check over and wash so they would be fresh when he came home.

 

 Just when that would be Carwood did not know. This war had been over a few months now so he expected it would be soon. Ron had not mentioned anything about it in the note that had come with the latest parcel of his ‘souvenirs’ (a golden creature which Carwood took to be a dragon, some paper fans finely painted with trees and birds, a pair of very western silver candlesticks of the type which had always stuck to Ron's fingers in Germany, a ream of soft pale coloured silk, and a small tortoise of what looked like jade for Robbie) that had arrived two weekends past. Nor in his last letter dated some _four weeks_ ago.

 

 It was most unlike Ron for there to be such a gap in communication. He had always managed to send a letter even when the paper had accidental smears of mud on it and water drops smudging some of the words. He was a Staff Officer now and had been far away from any danger but it was in Carwood’s nature to be concerned. He had been to war and knew how accidents continued to maim and take lives even after the fighting stopped. If anything _had_ happened, just like it had been for the past three years, Carwood would not know until Ron's sister sent word because to the wider world he was a war buddy and tenant and not...well, not family.

 

 He pulled up short when he flicked on the light in the living room. One of the Korean vases which had lived on the mantelpiece in the two years since Ron had sent it was now sat on the sideboard next to the Cigarette box made from a part of what Ron had prised from his commandeered Mercedes (the rest going to a box for Carwood’s cufflinks, dogtags, and, since he left for Korea, a photograph of Ron).

 

 In the vase was a thick spray of fresh, vibrant flowers. A card was propped against it and Carwood carefully went to pick it up, putting his back to the wall so he could see both the doors into the room as he read it.

 

 He jolted, rushing through into the master bedroom and staring at the dress uniform laying over the chair, the kit bag at the foot of the bed whose crisp, army tucked sheets were creased slightly on Carwood’s side as if someone had lain on it.

 

“Ron,” he breathed, crossing over to touch the dent in his pillow, looking around in bemusement, thrumming with excitement that had nowhere to go.

 

 Wandering back into the living room Carwood went to look at the flowers, smiling at the mismatched assortment of blooms that could only come from one man. Ron’s small gifts to him had always been useful - a watch, shirts, scarves, a gold nibbed fountain pen for work, even the candy all those years ago in Toccoa. And although they seemed impractical, a bunch of flowers served their own purpose as Ron was not often one for words of deep emotion and a lot could be said with a bouquet.

 

 Here were blue Violets for faithfulness, a single Rose as an I Love You, Nasturtiums for victory, Lilly of the Valley for sweetness and a mixture of yellow and striped Tulips along with red, white, and pink Camellia’s that made Carwood's cheeks feel hot as he smiled a little helplessly.

 

“You used to pour over the Language of Flowers with such dedication,” Ron’s low voice said from behind him and Carwood closed his eyes, hardly daring to turn around. “And I would watch you blush as you deciphered my messages.”

 

“I’ve memorised the book by now,” Carwood said, clearing his throat when his voice came out scratchy.

 

“You still blush.”

 

 Carwood turned and there was Ron stood at ease in the middle of the room. He was dressed in slacks and a dark blue sweater that Carwood knew was soft, could feel the phantom sensation of it against his palms from the all times he had run his hands over Ron's broad chest and strong shoulders.

 

 He looked as he always did, handsome as a society darling and as dangerous as a wolf. The few new lines around his bottomless eyes and the couple of extra greys amongst the curls the army had never been able to tame did nothing to tarnish that. 

 

"Why didn't you tell me you'd be coming home?"

 

"I had it in mind to surprise you, it was only when I changed trains in Michigan did I think that may have not have been the best idea. Especially with Robbie around."

 

"Ron..."

 

"I was already planning on the flowers, but take them as an apology for any concern I've caused."

 

“Why weren't you here, where did you go?” Carwood breathed. 

 

 Something flashed through Ron’s eyes. “Korea,” he joked, sharp eyes watching Carwood smile as his face twitched in amusement. "I came home and you weren't here which I felt was deserved for not alerting you I was coming. Our neighbour knocked on the door as she had seen me arrive and she told me where you had taken Robbie so I went to pick up some things, groceries and the like, because..." he seemed to realise he was stood at ease and shifted on his feet, looking uncharacteristically awkward as he let his hands hang lose at his sides. "Once I hold you I won't be able to stop until I forget that I ever suffered from missing you.”

 

“Oh,” Carwood breathed and they were in one another’s arms, no exploring hands shoved under clothing nor moans swallowed in one another’s mouth just yet. That was for later, on the sheets which Ron had never slept on, which they had never made love on. Now was for holding one another and believing, in that moment, that they would never again let one another go.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> After years of looking at the box-set I finally watched this before Christmas and then again after Chirstmas and could happily go for a third watch what the ffffuck HBO.
> 
> This was one of those fic's that just came pouring out of me, it was so much fun to write and I've been holding on to it for ages because I've got such a soft spot for it I didn't want to let it go (blah blah writer rubbish blah).


End file.
